Clockwise
by Novoux
Summary: What happens now, considering Shizuo isn't around to keep Izaya from falling deeper. He's losing fast, spinning clockwise. Sequel to Clockwork. Trigger warning.


Clockwise

What happens now.

It's the silent, mind-consuming question leaving him bedridden for a couple days now. Agonizingly enough he's not the one who has to quickly send an email of absence until he can stand for more than ten minutes without shaking violently. The shaking has more to do with the nights of no sleep, because every time he closes his eyes he's forced awake by something horrifying that leaves his throat raw from screaming until he's upright and gasping—struggling to breathe. As if the lack of sleep isn't enough, it's the hoarse loss of his voice and the piercing headaches he's developed. Daylight, slipping in through the cracks of his blinds doesn't come fast enough, nor does it bring the relief he's starting to crave.

Namie quit two days ago, leaving a message on his voice machine—the thirty-fifth one—saying she's had enough of Izaya's absences for more than three days. (Has it really been that long? The days keep blending together.) And with that, she quits and tells him to find someone else willing to put up with his "games" (he'd love to tell her just how much _fun _he's having) and he hasn't gathered the strength to call her back. Not like he really wants to in the first place. He'd rather focus on not feeling ill in the mornings and exhausted throughout each day than fight a worthless battle.

Speaking of battles, an unfriendly reminder comes crawling back into his memories without any regard to his lack of sleep. Just to keep him more awake as he recalls the day he suddenly finds Shizuo in his apartment and for what reason Izaya isn't entirely sure. He remembers with reluctance the violent shaking that led to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and what happened after isn't very clear. Afterward, he knows that he woke up on his sofa, covered in a blanket and his floor cleaned and wondered if it had all been an illusion. But the ashy taste of Shizuo's lips—disgusting, by the way—lingers in the way that it isn't possible he is imagining it. But why—well, he is a monster—Shizu-chan did such a thing he doesn't understand. When he tries to imagine why, his thoughts move in circles, clockwise and leading back into the first thought to begin with. It's agitating trying to understand monsters and himself at the same time, leading back squarely into another headache he has to drag himself to the bathroom to empty his hollow stomach.

It's not fair, he concludes. Having to stay in bed unless if throwing up or getting water is plausible, he can barely move from the headaches that cripple him. Working doesn't keep his mind off of anything, only bringing him back in a hand-swept manner to the first attack he's experienced. Everything moves in circles like his vision that can't focus no matter how hard he tries. Headaches pound in cycles climaxing at some points to throwing up—sometimes to the point of blacking out—and then back down just enough to get a drink of water. He hasn't eaten in days, considering nothing stays down and his mind's constantly thinking about any type of food and calling it unsafe.

The thought of calling Shinra has been on his mind (he's sure that he probably has some angry messages mixed in with calls from Shinra on his phones he hasn't touched in days) to find out what exactly plagues his life but he never does. The reason why, he tells himself, is because it isn't practical when in reality it's his pride that keeps him from doing anything he finds himself wanting. (Disgusting illogical words and actions he shouldn't dare to think of.) He consoles himself that it's only weakness that bothers him and not just because he hasn't slept for more than thirty minutes in three days. Passing out ungracefully on his bathroom floor or in his kitchen is only for ten. And those lead to the rest of the day tossing and turning restlessly until his eyes force themselves open at the nameless terror he's not supposed to be afraid of. Yet he is.

He doesn't remember what day it is or when night became morning but he does remember the first time he usually throws up. Right after trying to fall asleep or take a sleeping pill his thoughts start screaming and roughly tear him from sleep and reduce him to something that isn't godly but cowardice inhibited. Then there's the trembling because of the things he hallucinates behind his eyes he can't name or put a face to but they're horrifying when they shouldn't be. It's only that his subconscious makes him fear—to put it lightly—for the evolutionary tool of keeping him alive. So far it's killing him, he muses darkly. With sheets stained with sweat and trembling so badly his limbs start cramping there's very little he can do besides waiting it out and breathing as if his lungs aren't collapsing. His mind's more dramatic than him, it seems nowadays.

Inherently insufferable today (whatever day it is when his cellphone's off and can't remind him) Izaya doesn't wake when the sun comes up at four in the morning. Izaya's already awake and desperate to sleep with another headache starting up again or is it the same one he's not sure anymore. Red eyes unblinking at his ceiling, thoughts heavy and sagging like bags of salt water and he wonders if he'll ever get a break from this torture. So far his lungs are struggling to draw in air once again and he breathes shallowly from his mouth in an attempt to calm himself down although he already knows the routine is useless. It hurts to breathe like it hurts to think and live confined to a bed. His phone is on his nightstand and the temptation of calling Shinra is there. Too bad it isn't as strong as his pride, leaving him to roll over and sling an arm over his eyes and try to forget anything and everything. The pain behind his eyes stretching to the back of his head keeps him unhelpfully grounded.

Izaya's stomach hurts after not having anything long enough to be digested. At first it growls for several days, fading into an angry echo that contributes to his nightly routine of never sleeping. The times where he's seizing and shaking, however, do get rid of the sensation temporarily. They never last much longer than ten or twenty minutes though. None, so far, have been as bad as the first one and he's had six he can remember. Like tiny pockets of air in sealed plastic, suffocating and drawing out the end of what he can grasp to choke and constrict _no, no, no_—he's already shaking and he can feel another panic attack coming on. If he thinks about them too much, he's discovered, another will form in place.

Breathe, he reminds himself. Forces himself to inhale and exhale slowly to the best of his abilities even though his mind's warping and twisting into a nether of anxiety and panic. Not sure what the fuss is about only that he's panicking again—so out of character for him and irritating as badly as Shizu-chan is an idiot. A shudder jerks his spine and his fingers tremble, muscles constricting and pulling his body into an orchestrated circle of knees pressing into his chest. Hands twists and dig into his sheets to try and keep himself from losing any further. Izaya moans softly, feeling his stomach disagree with him again and swallows hesitantly the moment his stomach begins to cramp.

"S-Stop..." he mutters to himself, clutching the black fabric of his shirt with hands that tremor viciously. Jolts of pain run down his spine in icy fingers that grasp his seizing limbs and make him shudder heavily. Eyes squeezing shut to block out the forceful spasms wracking his body and unsuccessful in keeping the panic manageable. It rises unlike tides as it keeps crawling up his spine with each and every shudder he fights like the scream that's eventually rising in his throat torn raw and aching. The fear of the unknown seeks his brain and captures his conscience, chasing out any thoughts of rationality to replace them with the feeling of losing his mind. It works as he's panting roughly along with the string of moans that scratch his throat. The lack of sleep starts taking its toll and he struggles to keep his eyes open because he knows the mind-numbing insanity will grab him and not let go.

Control is the only thing he has.

He shakes and grabs for his blankets to pull over his head. The darkness only serves to worsen the panic surging in his blood cutting off before his lungs as if purposely keeping him from living. Everything feels distanced, numb only with shuddering and fingers tightened to fists in his sheets. Feet cramping from tendons pulled tight but he can't let go or he'll fall and drown in the emptiness he can't hold in his grasp.

It's only ten minutes, he tells himself. Ten minutes and he grits his teeth to hold on. So far it's been about five—time passes too slowly most of the time—and already he's facing the urge to throw up until there's no breath left to breathe so he can finally pass out. If he dies, he amuses himself grimly, it's only a benefit of sleeping longer. He can't work like this, he knows already and it's going to haunt him in the numerous missed emails and calls littering every outlet he has. But as he's unable to read when a headache blurs his vision, it's useless to try anything. His employers will definitely be more than just angry, but they can't afford to lose someone like Izaya and that's one of his many trump cards. Blackmail also happens to be a beautiful thing in the underground world.

"Sh-Shizu...chan..." The words tumble out accidentally but he doesn't make the effort to stop himself now when he's too ill to care. Izaya's headache throbs in tandem with his heart rate that nearly triples with how fast his blood pumps. Throwing his head back with the next shudder of pain he knows isn't real his jaw clenches to keep from screaming with the rising of bile slithering at the back of his throat.

It's almost over. The phrase is meaningless with words that do nothing to satiate the crazed desire for his mind. The panic brings along the pain of dying though his body won't cease until he can (if he's lucky, which he doesn't believe in) pass out in time before he vomits. It's a gamble he's nonetheless willing to try if it means sleep if any at all. Even if his dreams are violent and force him awake with the same shrieking he'll never admit to as it rips the flesh of his throat raw and bleeding. Never a pretty thought for what little he has and it'll just have to suffice as it always does. He wants to sleep, is all. If it's so much to ask for, he questions if he'll ever get the luxury of remembering the time without such violent panic attacks.

"Sh-Shizu..." he moans again, cringing at another terror that comes to his eyes even when he knows it's not real. It's ridiculous how pathetic he is, lying in bed and cowering at nothing. "S-Stop, I c-can't...u-ugh..." he groans at the pain in his head, moving a hand to clutch at his forehead and block his eyes. It's too much he can't deal with because he doesn't know how to control it and the fear—he hates it because it makes him _weak—_is too tangible and untamed like a beast in the dark. Somehow he's back in his childhood, afraid to be left alone even though it's always what he is and his mother's never coming back—No, _stop. _Stop thinking, stop feeling. "H-h-nngh..." He'll always be alone (it makes the shuddering worse as it comes back with a vengeance) and he knows that it won't change. It can't.

"H-hurts..." A final choked gurgling noise that's pitiful even for him after he's sunken this low. He wants to reach for his cellphone but he can't now, paralyzed by his own mind. It's supposed to be off, but the screen flashes with an incoming call. How strange.

Somehow, eight minutes in—but who's counting anyway—Izaya passes out from exhaustion. His regular haunts give up for now, receding to the back of his mind to torture him later while his lungs quiver with the greedy gulps of oxygen they force from Izaya's (cracked and split again) parted lips. Eyelids draping over his eyes, Izaya's clenched hands fall from his head and shirt, slackening on his bed akin to a doll with how disjointed he is. Knees pull away from his chest only to straighten slightly in the strange fetal position he takes whenever a panic attack strikes. He calls them that, only going by the basis of the panic his mind rests in turmoil with whenever they suddenly come. Doesn't know why or what or how. Just that it hurts.

* * *

><p>When Izaya wakes it's because his head's pounding and his jaw aches from grinding his teeth in his sleep. Going by how little it feels as he's been asleep and the shallow volume of his breaths it's probably only been twenty minutes. His eyes close stubbornly for more, demanding it like a child and stinging when he doesn't get his way with reserved wetness. Tells himself it's only because his eyes are dry past the point of exhaustion and into extreme insomnia. Listlessly he picks his arms up and folds them into his chest, curling into a tighter ball turned clockwise to keep time moving until the next time he can fall asleep.<p>

It doesn't take long until his throat is too dry and too raw to ignore. So Izaya shuffles reluctantly out of bed, carefully covering his eyes and giving his blinds not a second glance as he pulls himself up. Shakily he moves to his feet, grasping his bed and swallowing the wave of dizziness that threatens to send him to the floor. A groan or two slips past his lips while he struggles to the door, nearly falling over his own feet that clumsily navigate and doubts he's ever felt this horrible before. Surely then, it won't be long until he can't move anymore. And if the time comes where he's reduced to a pathetic groveling mess, he'd rather die than suffer any more of his misfortune.

Blood pounds in his ears with each step. He's down the hallway to the kitchen, clutching the wall for support and trying to see past the blinding pain of yet another cycle of headache. His day has gone from bad to worse considering how quickly his panicking and headache evolve rapidly out of control and into the dangerous territory of sanity. Izaya has one of the best and most brilliant minds he knows of—a fact he's quite proud of at times specifically when he rubs it in Shizu-chan's face just for a reaction—but the loss of control is another horror story on its own. At times it's the fiery ferocity that consumes his mind and flushes him with fever-like malaise unable to keep a grasp on reality. Or it's the chilling, bone-seeking cold that makes him shudder and seize until either wear off or he's unconscious. Unsettling, yes, but he doesn't have much of a choice. If any at all, that is.

Izaya's slender fingers reach for a glass from his cabinet, successfully handling one carefully (his fingers tremble much to his frustration) and turning on his sink to fill it with cold water. Self-control abandoned, Izaya drinks the entire thing in several greedy gulps. The cold helps null the sting of his pounding headache but it isn't enough whereas it barely clears out the nausea and vertigo driving past the point of annoyance and into anger. In his eagerness he's forgotten to pace himself and a line of water escapes from his lips, trickling down his throat and onto his shirt. Another cup filled and he shuffles to his couch, uninterested in the television remote resting on his coffee table in favor of the blanket that he remembered to fold after he woke up the first time. TV makes his head hurt when he can't focus on anything for long when the blurry vision makes it too hard to bear watching and the sounds sting his ears until they ring.

It's pointless, he reminds himself when he glances at his abandoned laptop, to consider trying to get work done. Maybe, though, he can look up what exactly is bothering him? Anything is worth a try as he tends to think on the optimistic side of things, so he pulls his feet onto the sofa and the laptop carefully into his lap, pressing the power button. While it's loading he gulps down more water, clearing half the glass without much thought when it's not enough to soothe the dryness of his throat. It's never enough.

At the welcoming chime his eardrums spasm, making his teeth grind until the pain is bearable enough to ignore and click on a web browser. Blinking several times he tries to clear his vision without much resulting, so he tries to type in a search and his mind blanks. Yet again.

"Damn it," he hisses, raising a hand in the familiar gesture of clutching his head. Using the heel of his palm he tries to coerce the throbbing pain to cease and fails as he usually does. It's completely blank now, his head, and he hates having been reduced to this with every second another tortured moment in living so shamefully. It's painful enough dealing with vending machines slamming into him full force, so where does the idea of losing control of himself—the worst punishment that's ever been created—come from, then?

Fingers tap on his keys, remembering the broken ones of his old keyboard on his monitor (another proof Shizu-chan was here) and the irony of losing his voice the moment the keys broke. It's just a coincidence, though. Nothing remarkable about public humiliation in front of Shizu-chan the monster. In fact, that makes it worse. Although right now, nothing's coming to mind. As if it has all fallen out of mind and his brain has shut itself down in order to rid itself of the disease slowly plaguing him, he can't remember what to say. The _joys _of slowly going insane.

He scowls, turning his laptop off not before missing the power button three times and then shoving it back onto the coffee table. In the favor of his water he grabs it and drags down a couple more swallows at the time he starts to realize nothing is going to the wall above the television there's a clock he can barely read (oh the irony, ne?) and he thinks it says seven forty-five. But when he tries to focus and read the numbers, they don't come out but in fuzzy blurs. Stupid headache. Izaya votes to curl back up under his blanket and get on with his headache when it's obvious it's not going to leave him today.

True enough, it takes ten minutes of pretending to be dead on his couch before the first waves of dizzying nausea. When the first pang hits his mouth salivates excessively and the first stupid mistake he makes is to swallow it. Only the nausea gets worse when he does—stomach curling and twisting into knots. Izaya's heart starts pounding rapidly (it's that time again) with the third and fourth waves of nausea crashing down and pulsing through his veins. Ears ringing, the vertigo can only get worse from here and it makes him realize in the midst of yet another headache how bad this really is. He's so stubbornly selfish and of course he's not going to ask for help when he thinks he can do it himself. Unless if he knows he's bleeding to death, he won't make any indication of keeping himself from situations like this. But it's too late now, considering his fingers are trembling again and the nausea is too strong to resist while his mind is whirling clockwise and counterclockwise. Bile rises to the back of his throat in a strong surge and he has to cover his mouth with one shaking cold hand and the trek to the bathroom down the hall is too long.

It's the art of stumbling without falling, or holding back the _nothing _he's supposed to throw up—and then wryly remember that after the first time he throws up there's going to be another attack if he falls to the floor and sits on the bathroom tile for too long. He won't think of that, however, until he is collapsing and vomiting into the toilet. Fingers clench the sides while he retches, painfully so, as if clawing the way to some desirable fate to exist with after he's vomiting water. Probably shouldn't have drunk that much without thinking of the consequence. His mind is reeling while bile slithers up his throat and empties into the toilet just like the water, stinging and scorching hot in his throat and nose. Tears come to his eyes and he doesn't fight them when he's too busy emptying the rest of himself into whatever ugly punishment this must be for him to still be barely stringing along.

When his stomach is finally emptier without the water and plenty of bile, Izaya stops feeling the churning nausea and manages to rest his head on his hands. Disgusting. He feels disgusting. Izaya would rather have a bath or even the privilege of a shower, but he can't stay sitting in the water long enough without having the urge to vomit again. He's already discovered that. In the aftermath of nausea he feels a sort of dry dizziness like a special seat in Hell has been reserved for him. As he's dry heaving and choking on the pungent reek of bile another wave of bile comes up, scorching out of his nose and in his throat it suddenly gets caught in the last unexpected round of throwing up.

He can't breathe. And so he chokes and gags, pushing on his stomach to try and dislodge the bile that won't come out and the panic in his mind is all too real as his subconscious takes over. Survival instincts are screaming in his ears at a deafening level _get out get out get out_ and it burns so badly like he's choking on fire. The pain is nauseating and his stomach lurches painfully. _Please please please _is repeating in his mind over the ringing in his ears to _stop _with the vomiting and is he going to choke to death on his own vomit? How boring and unfitting of a god. He _can't _die and he can't do this when there's no more of him left to keep fighting back the rise and churning of the panic attacks and the headaches with everything in between. It's too much. Too much and it hurts beyond what he's able to brush off when it's only affecting him and he can't stop when he doesn't know how to fix himself.

It takes five minutes—throwing up for ten—to pull himself together. His throat clears after a well-placed punch to the stomach (resulting in vomiting enough to start bleeding) and tears sting his eyes. They're not just from the putrid odor but also the force and gagging near the point of unconsciousness.

Reduced to a mere (Izaya, a god of humans) pile of flesh collapsed on his floor by something so simple, so ludicrous as this. He would never think this would happen to him. It's simply too illogical and redundant to be plausible.

Yet here he is, wiping his eyes with his right hand and lying on the cool tile, wanting nothing more than to die if he can't fix this. The disquiet of his stomach is starting to calm—not fast enough and he feels he could probably throw up again—and his mouth, nose, eyes, and teeth all burn with an acute stinging pain he's dealt with before. This time it is much worse because there's still panic residing—why is he afraid of nothing, useless pathetic _weak—_at the back of his mind.

A plea is at his lips and he can taste the bitter words, swallowing them down stubbornly because he refuses to give in so easily. He won't let anyone help him. They sting and fight to break past his teeth grinding together and the pain becomes another headache blooming at the back of his head like blood from a head wound. Lungs start deflating too rapidly—not again—and he opens his mouth only to ignore the taste of bile-tinged air in favor of staving off another panic attack.

What he doesn't expect is that the second he opens his mouth, his eyes sting too much and fat drops of liquid start rolling down his cheeks and into his greasy hair. Izaya tells himself, covering his mouth with a fist and closing his eyes, that it's only from a chemical reaction to the mess he's been put through. That's it, and there's nothing else to it and no they're not tears. Just salt water that coincidentally comes at an improper moment and that's all it will ever be.

He's not crying. It's tears of exhaustion mixed with the sweat trickling down his forehead. His palms are cold and clammy while his body's burning with fever, a noise or two escaping from his mouth because it hurts too much to stop himself. Besides, no one will see him like this.

He's not crying. It doesn't hurt.

Izaya spends an undefined amount of time (hours feel like centuries) on the floor being as miserable as he can possibly be, eyes closed and trying to calm down. The feeling is akin to a mental breakdown (he's not a weakling, this shouldn't be happening to him) but somehow he manages. Poorly, but he's still breathing with a hiccup here and there, grasping his shirt with arms crossed over his stomach. Cramps are the worst and he's grateful at least they've calmed down with the time passing, enough to tolerate. Exhaustion starts creeping in but it's not enough to give him sleep. It's never enough. After the shaking is at a minimum and the headache lightens, Izaya slowly climbs to his feet, grasping onto his bathroom counter for balance and pulling himself to his aching legs. He brushes his teeth several times until the acid taste is nearly indistinguishable from the minty toothpaste, blowing his nose (trying not to look at what comes out, ugh) and from how dry his mouth is, he'll attempt drinking more water.

Shuffling out to his living room Izaya glances at the clock and it's 10:27. Another day going to waste and all because of his brain. It's embarrassingly humiliating, he dryly recognizes that today is another day of pain and soon he'll have to send out another email because he's not getting any better. A growl from his stomach faintly reminds him of the last time he ate and demands compensation, but he's not interested.

On the couch with another drink of water he sips, slowly to keep from another session in the bathroom. His hair feels filthy when he hasn't had a bath in too long. Everything is too much all at once and for once he's aware of everything his body's doing and a shudder ripples down his spine involuntarily. He doesn't feel like a pretty sight to see. More of a dying god that refuses to give up just because of his pride and the pain is already winning him over. Izaya thinks he's become a shell of his former self from how flaky he is when applied to the real world. This isn't like him.

Reality can wait, he sighs to himself and rubs the heel of his palm into his forehead again. It's not fair when his own game of life has turned on him like it does now with its games of headaches and mind control. It can't just target the player, can it? It's only supposed to go after the pawns—not him. But maybe, he should call—

No. Izaya isn't a pitiful human. He's a god amongst the silly humans he loves so dearly. Therefore he should not interfere as much as possible, even if it means saving his mind. If it's diseased, then it's already meant to die to begin with, he reasons. No matter how much it hurts or how raw his throat is from screaming and vomiting his organs, scraping out any power he has left.

In some way Izaya falls asleep, curled into a ball where his headache rotates clockwise like the spinning of his thoughts before they unwind. The toll on his body is too great and he doesn't remember falling asleep. It's better that way if he doesn't, though. That way he doesn't have to keep thinking too much over nothing or how his sanity is leaking through the corners of his eyes at odd times. Sadly, he's desperate enough for any reason to lose consciousness when waking is a nightmare on its own that no matter how much he screams internally (no, not him, he's a god) it won't go away.

And that, he theorizes, is how gods fall.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes isn't a substitute for a night's worth of sleep he doesn't remember the last time he's had. But it's better than less minutes even if he wakes up in the middle of another night terror he unconsciously tosses and turns to. Teeth grinding, arms trembling and another scream starts to build in his throat like a preset wake-up call just for the macabre humor of whoever hates him—all of Ikebukuro, as a surprisingly more accurate than not guess—but for now he's just moaning sparsely when pangs of a headache clang in between his eyes. For now he doesn't know what lurks in the shadows of his diseased mind until he wakes.<p>

The night terror vividly flashes through the backs of his eyes; unrecognizable gore and subconscious terror that if Izaya was awake and fully in control himself (when was the last time...?) he'd scoff at. Nevertheless he starts to tremble with shivers racing down his spine and seizing the nerves and muscles of every part they can grab, twisting him with manipulation akin to that of a doll: a puppet, even.

"Ugh..." he grunts softly, coiling further into himself as if to protect himself from a predator. Except that there is one, and it's winning the chase with startling speed. Eyes dart back and forth, concealed by eyelids and searching for the one thing he can't grasp. "H-Hah—ah..." His eyelids scrunch tighter, body shuddering as his muscles constrict and he curls in as far as he can. The nightmare flashing behind his eyes is watching—feeling himself brutally murdered, not before he's tortured in every way possible. Sometimes it's pulling off every single nail from his fingers and toes, pouring molten lead over the bleeding wounds or it can be something as gruesome as rape (skin slapping, drugged, bound and gagged bleeding all over eardrums split open and a bullet in each limb) by unknown faces. They keep beating him with metal rods and shove one—make it stop where is—set fire to his skin—Shizu-chan _please_—

Silence.

And then the exciting part starts. First, it's a low, drawn-out moan that can be mistaken for a sigh with the quiet frailty of it. The calm before the storm, it seems shortly before Izaya starts thrashing closer after shuddering and groaning softly from the pain he doesn't see but feels ten times more what it's supposed to be. Soon enough he's moving too much as the images flash too quickly and it's too much to process. Monsters, human or not, are wrecking havoc on his brain and the worst part is he can't see them. He can feel their claws and the thousands of eyes always watching, waiting for a slip-up so he'll fall. And then they'll claim him, dragging him down deeper where he won't be able to surface. It's so frustrating he can't control the only possible thing that can manipulate him while he's helpless.

Pathetic, really.

Stage four—eyes open, waking up from screaming and still doing so—the sound is grating on his ears, it sounds like someone's dying—he's not fully awake but his throat is. And the piercing sound echoes while he shivers and trembles like it's the middle of winter. The aching dry raw pitch of the shrieking at an unreasonably high pitch doesn't stop while he's lock-jawed and his brain isn't fully grasping the reality of being alone on his couch before noon. To be fair, it has only had thirty minutes of rest. But even then, it's not enough.

Hands shoot up—finally—to his ears and block out the sound with his palms, screwing his eyes shut and waiting for the automatic response of his body to stop. Izaya's hurting (eyes stinging, throat scorching, organs curdling) and the release of silence won't be able to stop the throb of another headache flaring up or how low he's dropping to. Clawing at his hair with blunt fingernails Izaya tries to calm himself the first moments of awareness. Little works, however, because there's a cold sweat breaking out on dry skin and the panic is still there even after his voice is too damaged to make noise. The screaming dies like bleeding out: trickling away until there's nothing left but silence and hot stagnant air.

Fragments of a night terror remain in his eyes, quickly finding ways to bead and roll down the informant's cheeks and gather at his chin before they soak into his pants. The fear is all to real and still to there, he numbly admits to this as he can't quite shake the feeling of having never escaped what's waiting when he closes his eyes. At the back of his mind, it's still there. Waiting for when his guard falls because he can't stand anymore. Sleep deprivation, he's not sure, is considered torture if it's by his brain holding him hostage to force him through the worst of primal subconscious behavior.

He shudders. Too tired to keep screaming and too awake to fall asleep, his mouth closes and his fingers move from his ears to tremble while he wipes away the excess emotion he hates so much. Even though he's calm enough to not scream and whimper anymore, what happens next is a too real notion he's come to learn so easily. And he hopes, with bitter irony, that it won't lead to it. However when he considers the—hopelessness, he really is pathetic—scale of the night terrors he's just experienced, the outcome is more probable than slightly. At this rate, he's about entirely sure it will and there's nothing he can do besides wait for it to come and torture himself a little more.

It doesn't help, counting his breaths for the seconds that tick by and he's waiting. The first sign he's going to recognize is the increased heart rate—check, but maybe it's from the night terrors—and at this point he should just accept that it's not going to get better. He'll suffer because there's nothing that can save him from an attack of his own mind—one he can't predict and counteract.

In a clockwise motion his head spins, vision joining in like it's all a game he loves to play. But not with himself as much. The headache pounds in growing frequency of intensity like clockwork and his heart comes alive, thumping and aching below his ribs. All to keep the blood flowing in constricted arteries clogged with veins receding like he does into himself. Waiting to die. Despite the fact it's ten minutes after eleven and the day's almost into noon Izaya can't help but wonder if this will be the beginning or the end, depending on the scope of the churning at the back of his mind. Slowly, he knows, it'll pool into his mind so it's all he'll ever know while he's screaming silently after he's ripped his throat out.

Next stage comes in the form of his breath hitching, lungs constricting, pain leaking—it's too much. Time isn't important when he doesn't know how long this one will last when it's not a morning one or the ones he has at night. This is a larger scale variety of attacks to shut him down completely, shuddering under a blanket or something undignified and time keeps passing in a clockwise direction. It doesn't and won't wait for him to catch up as he's unable to grasp onto something solid. His bones feel like salt water and pudding. Another day he keeps telling himself but—how long is enough? When does that mean he doesn't have to hurt anymore why does it hurt—he can't count the hours and minutes and seconds down to the time where his brain isn't rogue and there's no clanging of another storm of headaches ringing in his ears. Like it's tangible to think without pain and constant irrelevant fear lingering and looming over his next moves like everything is a game. It's not funny anymore.

Gasping once again he chokes on saliva and no air comes to him, effectively evading his clutches once again in a game of keep away. His chest is burning, hot hot hot and while the rest of the room is freezing cold it's melting and being frozen at the same time. Except his brain—churning and trembling with the shadows that draw for too long and too far, reaching out—is shuddering to a watery grave of the gore that isn't real. There's screaming ringing in his ears and maybe it's his own but he knows somewhere in the back of his mind his throat is torn raw and the warmth trickling down like bile is probably blood. Hands shaking (he can easily pull his throat out, make the noise stop) he squeezes his fingers into fists and covers his eyes, hiding from the monster in the corner that's watching him when he doesn't look. It's too much to be here, suffocating and hearing the screaming explosions ripping his eardrums apart and the fear is all too real when he knows it's not.

He's going to die. Die; his head is so light and full of nothing that it's almost numb save for the pounding of blood rush in his ears. Choking on saliva and shadows creeping closer he can't stop, can't see past the shadows—what was that?—creeping high on the walls, on the floor that melts and oozes red blood—he may just vomit. The probability is too great to shove the nausea back down the depths of open sores littering the inside of his esophagus. Dying, dying, death—can't stop looking back to the figure looming in the corner of his eye, right next to the kitchen—it's all the same he can't control.

Helplessly he's thrashing and doesn't know if silence can count as screaming because it's so loud. And then he's not quite there but still is, derealization setting in in a confusing twist of fate and efficiently shutting down the rest of his body's movements. He feels like tearing himself apart to move and get away from whatever's up on the wall, crawling toward him in what will surely be his last moments.

Spastic movements jerk his limbs (and eventually him) off of the couch, slamming his head on his coffee table into another type of vertigo while his head oozes blood into his eyes. And he wonders why he's seeing red. Everything's buzzing like a swarm of wasps, stinging every inch of skin and paralyzing him as he's held down, nailed to the floor like a macabre decoration. His heart's beating so fast it's about to burst out of his chest if it hasn't already impaled itself on his ribs to leak out and escape—he needs to escape, get out and _breathe—_

Vomit forces its burning trail up and out of his mouth, wrenching him off the floor and onto his side when it comes like an explosion, holding his stomach hostage and burning until he's thrown up so much he can't breathe any more than he has already. Collapsing on the floor he sees blood—not sure if it's from his stomach—and the eerie monster, draped in shadows coming closer and a hand reaching out to grasp his throat and tighten until his spine shatters. This can't happen; no, stop, he can't get away and it's too close, needs to escape and run until he's nothing so it can't take him anymore. Shrieking and eyes leaking tears when it's past the point of no going back and his sanity's slipping through the cracks of his floor. Watching every part of himself leave, trailing like saliva and sticky as it slides along the floor until it falls, dropping like the first sign of rain. Before the tsunami that comes to throw him down and steal what little he has left, drowning him further and further—can't see can't see—vision blurring and a mix of red, mucus green (that would be the vomit) and—darkness.

The hand reaching to him takes his throat, squeezing tightly as nails dig in and he's losing his sight too fast to remember how to keep screaming. A grim smile, filled with sharp teeth and salivating as it plucks out his sanity, swallowing it piece by piece until he's ripped apart, limb from limb and screaming until the last breath runs out. Laughter, piercing and shrieking with a high-pitched tune violently punctures his eardrums and his headache's pulsing is too much. Like the beat of his heart, being dug out of his chest with claws—it hurts, no—pinned down, chest open and his veins and arteries are cut with claws sinking into his spine, pulling out the heart that beats faster than a hummingbird's.

He finds some way to hear himself scream, or at least the vibrations until he's unable to stand the pain, falling down, down, down. Counting down the seconds ticking by in a roundabout clockwise motion.

On his phone there are twenty-three missed calls that aren't from Namie.

* * *

><p><em>Series goes in order: Clockwork, Clockwise, Counterclockwise<br>_

_Thank you for reading._


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